


Branded

by DCLynneHaddock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Clueless Sherlock, M/M, Magic, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCLynneHaddock/pseuds/DCLynneHaddock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When witches called Dananics reveal themselves to the human population they have lived amongst for centuries, it's decided that everyone must have an indicator of their race tattooed onto their right hand. But while Sherlock is less than pleased to have a reminder of his ordinary human status branded onto his skin, more pressing is the danger that presents itself when John's tattoo does not match his own. With witches being hunted down and killed all over the world, will Sherlock be able to save John from any potential harm and- more importantly- will John let him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelation

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is a magical AU set around a world that I've had in my head for a long time. Because this is the case, I'm aware I may get ovrexcited and forget to explain things. So please let me know if there are any issues that you're confused on, please hit me with any concrit you want and, most importantly, enjoy!

** Chapter One: Revelation **

Sherlock studied the white square that adorned his hand critically, as if the white padding could tell him anything more than he already knew.

All he really had to know was that his life would change forever once he took it off.

He traced the square of microfiber tape that held the dressing in place idly with one finger. Branded for life as ordinary. Well, wasn’t that just great?

Six months ago, the world had been sent into an uproar when a not-so-insignificant subculture of Earth’s population had come out- so to speak- as witches called Dananics. They claimed that they’d inhabited the planet for just as long as humans had, but had kept themselves hidden. But now, in this new age of acceptance, they wished to end the separation and share their culture with the humans.

Probably a bad move, given how historically adverse humans are to change.

Panic had ensued. Some countries had tried to hunt down and execute anyone whom they believed could possibly be a witch. It was the sixteenth century all over again. And, not to be outdone, the British Isles had also taken its fair part in the witch-trail drama. There had been riots in London, Bristol, Cardiff, Birmingham, Manchester and Glasgow. People had been thrown off piers in Blackpool, Brighton and Cornwall in an imitation of the float-test. (No-one was sure if these witches actually floated, but everyone thrown into the sea had perished, except for one person in Cornwall who had been saved by an even larger mob than the one trying to kill her.) In Edinburgh and Stirling, people had been found crumpled on the ground after being lobbed from castle battlements and Urquhart Castle next to Loch Ness had impressively managed to combine battlement-lobbing and witch-dunking by throwing them straight off the battlements into the loch itself. Historic Scotland was fiercely trying to disassociate itself with these events, but it had really happened too many times now for them to be able to claim they’d really tried to stop it.

Britain had gone insane.

It appeared that humanity had learnt nothing from its past mistakes. Sherlock was certain that it wasn’t only Dananics who had died in these murders (since they could hardly be called anything else) and he was even more certain that the Dananics did not deserve to die. They’d lived amongst the humans for years without committing genocide and now- the second they revealed themselves- the humans were trying to slaughter them in so-called ‘self defence’.

Idiots, the lot of them.

Not to say that Sherlock had been overjoyed to learn of the existence of the Dananics. Admitting that something that huge had evaded his notice irked to say the least, but he could also see that it had changed people’s perception of him.

Sherlock Holmes was only human, after all.

Shortly after the announcement, DI Greg Lestrade had admitted that he was Dananic, which had only served to piss Sherlock off even more. What type of consulting detective was he if he couldn’t even tell if someone was human? Following that revelation, more members of New Scotland Yard had also ‘come out’, though whether they would have if not to support their chief was another matter. Lestrade had thankfully kept his job. Sherlock would have hated to have had to talk anyone else into giving him such free access to crime scenes. It did go some way to explaining Lestrade’s tolerance of him, however. What was one more oddity when you lived with the weird every day?

But not everyone was accepted as easily as Lestrade was. He was respected and marginally intelligent. Others weren’t so fortunate. Dananics were beaten for an unchangeable fact of their birth. Humans were beaten whilst being mistaken for Dananics.

Eventually, something had to give.

A month ago, a decree had been passed by the British government (along with most other European and North American powers), declaring that everyone was legally required to have a signifier of their race tattooed onto the top of their right hand. Of course, it was an utterly stupid idea that would force every Dananic out into the open to be attacked by humans, but in their haste to have some sort of idea all of the governments had agreed to it.

Which left Sherlock in the unfortunate position of having his inferiority as a human branded onto his skin.

He had put it off until the last minute, of course. The decree noted that everyone had to have their tattoos done by the first of March or risk being fined an excessive amount. Mycroft and John had teamed up to finally coerce Sherlock into a hospital to get his done on that same day. John had refrained from getting his own done so they could get theirs together as ‘a sign of solidarity’, which Sherlock took to mean as John being fully aware that Sherlock might have tried to avoid it altogether if not for the fact that John could have been fined as well if they hadn’t.

So he had a tattoo that he’d never wanted, marking a fact about himself that he didn’t care for others to know.

John had been remarkably blasé about the whole thing. He’d told Sherlock simply on the day of the announcement that he’d already known about the witches and that he was happy to live and let live. The tattoo announcement had unsettled him more, but Sherlock’s own reluctance had given him something else to focus on during that period.

Now, five days later, Sherlock was ready to take off the dressing for the final time and reveal his tattoo to the world.

The tattoo that would mean he was safe from persecution, but not from the crushing horror of being ordinary.

Steeling himself with a slow, drawn in breath that he mentally scolded himself for requiring, he eased the bandage off around his tattoo. It had stopped itching after three days, which had told Sherlock that he was healing well. The hospital had recommended that everybody give themselves at least five days to heal before revealing their mark, however. Possibly, this delay was also to give the person themselves time to adjust, John had suggested.

Sherlock had scoffed at the idea at the time, but now- as his fingers hesitated at the edges of the tape- he could tell that even he himself had fallen prey to the fear that these tattoos could instil. Revealing the marker that declared he was human meant revealing his inferiority to the Dananics, who by all reports possessed actual magical powers.

Not that Sherlock had particularly wanted magical powers.

Or he hadn’t until he’d known they existed.

He caught one end of the tape, pulling it off slowly to reveal his marker. The attractive, looping ‘R’ was done in an aesthetically pleasing calligraphy style just down and across a little from the web between his thumb and forefinger. ‘R’, the nurse had told him, was the first letter of the Dananic word for ‘human’. It had been decided that it would be easier to use the Dananic term rather than tailoring the tattoo to fit the language of every country who chose to go in on the scheme and Sherlock had to agree with the simplicity of it.

He studied his branding for a long moment, before standing up from his bed. No good moping about the circumstances of one’s birth, though he wouldn’t pretend that it didn’t give him some satisfaction to know that Mycroft was going through the same trauma. Although his brother had smugly stated that he’d already known about the Dananics, it didn’t prevent him from also having to be branded as human. And Sherlock knew that it grated with Mycroft just as much as it did with himself.

Sherlock supposed that he’d better show his tattoo to John, both to satisfy his medical curiosity had to how it was healing, and also to prove that he’d actually got the damn thing done. They had been taken into separate rooms on reaching the hospital to get branded and had only ever seen the bandages on each other’s hands.

John was sat in his chair, flicking through the latest medical journal to hit their doormat, with that slightly glazed expression that told Sherlock he was only half taking in what he was reading. He would remember key words that might make him come back to the journal in the future if it was required, but he wouldn’t have been able to tell Sherlock exactly what the article was about even if he had asked right that second.

Good. No reason not to interrupt him, then.

“Well, it looks as if I’ve healed successfully,” he remarked, thrusting his hand between John’s face the pages of the journal. He waited until John’s gaze had focused on the mark before continuing. “If I’m going to be branded for the rest of my life, it might as well look and feel inoffensive.” His gaze snapped to the bandage that still adorned John’s hand. “Is yours not healed?” was all he asked.

John sighed, “It’s still feeling a little itchy. I’m going to give it one more day.”

“It probably needs some air,” Sherlock suggested hopefully. “Just take off the bandage for a while. You can redress it before we go back out.” He wanted to see John’s tattoo; to know that they were in it together.

But John didn’t put down the journal, “It’s fine as it is for now.”

Something was wrong. Even Anderson could have sensed it. “Is it infected? I bet they didn’t properly sterilise all the needles, what with people being in all month to get tattoos done. If you’ve caught something-”

“I haven’t,” John said firmly. His eyes were on the page, but they weren’t moving as they would if he were reading. Rather he was just staring blankly at one word. “It’s just not fully healed, yet.”

“Show me.”

“Sherlock-”

“Take off your bandage, John, or I’ll take it off myself.”

John threw the journal down onto his lap angrily and tore off his dressing with a muttered curse. Then, dropping the dressing into the bin under the table next to him, he picked up the journal once more and resumed reading as if nothing had happened. “Happy now?” he asked through gritted teeth.

But Sherlock didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. He just stared at John’s right hand, on show to him even as John pretended once more to be reading his journal.

Just below and along from his hand web, where John should have had a tattoo that matched Sherlock’s own, was the letter ‘D’.


	2. Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still reeling from the shock of seeing John's branding, Sherlock tries to get more information out of a Dananic who's very unwilling to talk.

** Chapter Two: Shock **

It was very rare that Sherlock’s brain ever truly malfunctioned. But at that moment, it did. For a long moment, he could do nothing but stare at the letter on John’s hand. The wrong letter. He had no idea how long he stood there, staring at the branded flesh while his brain whirred and thunked like an old, laboured computer. A few times he opened his mouth and tried to enunciate, only to think better of it and close it again. John returned to staring moodily at his journal at some point, but this didn’t restrict Sherlock’s view of the tattoo.

It occurred to Sherlock later that in any other situation, John would have been amused and fascinated to see him this way. As it was, John just seemed agitated and annoyed.

“You’re Dananic.” It wasn’t a question. It was the wrong letter. He had to be Dananic.

“Yup.” And apparently that’s all he was getting. Sherlock felt this wasn’t enough to go on.

“Since when?”

John sent him a derisive look just as Sherlock mentally slapped himself, “Since Friday. I fancied a change.” It had been a stupid question by anyone’s standards. Coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, it was just ludicrous. His brain still hadn’t clunked back into gear.

Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to restore functionality. “Of course. Sorry.”

“Forget about it.” John looked back at the journal, clearing hoping that Sherlock would take some kind of social cue.

Sod that. This wasn’t the time for silly niceties. “Does ‘D’ stand for Dananic?” he asked instead.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Apparently deciding it had been too long since he’d turned a page, John turned a page. “It indicates which Dananic race I belong to.”

This was new. Sherlock took a moment to process the new information. “There are multiple races of witch?”

“Yes.” Again with the short, unhelpful answers. Did John know how obtuse he was being? Did he care?

“What’s your race called?”

“Sherlock, please,” John said quietly, in the one tone that could ever convince Sherlock to shut up. “Can we not right now?”

Sherlock blinked. Surely this was the perfect time to talk about this. Sherlock had only just discovered that his flatmate, his colleague, his friend wasn’t human and now he was being asked to wait? That didn’t seem fair. He studied John critically for a moment, took in the furrow between his brows and the stiff set of his shoulders. Even if Sherlock pushed him further, John was unlikely to be forthcoming with information at the moment. “You’ll tell me later?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, I promise,” he said slowly, in the tone that Sherlock recognised as usually being reserved for difficult children. What the hell had he done now that was so inappropriate? John was the one who had made this discussion necessary by failing to tell him beforehand. As far as back-story exclusions went, this was fairly major.

Sherlock allowed silence to fall between them, but didn’t move from his spot next to John’s chair. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Ought he to sit and try to distract himself with something else? But he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else now, he knew that. John was a brand new mystery that he was itching to solve.

He caught himself fidgeting and stilled himself. Sherlock Holmes did not fidget. He had trained himself out of that at an early age. Fidgeting made people less inclined to believe what you were saying. He allowed himself the small slip- it had been an atypical day so far after all- but resolved to hold himself more carefully in future.

But it had always been his conviction that had enabled him to stand so proudly. Sherlock prided himself on always knowing everything that was going on. But now there was a whole new world that he knew nothing about and the font of information that he’d just discovered within his flat was keeping annoyingly schtum.

Sherlock realised that he’d been staring at John for too long when the doctor dropped his magazine into his lap impatiently and turned his head to glare at him. “What?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Sherlock thought fast and raised his hand up again to study his own tattoo critically. “What does the ‘R’ stand for?” John surely couldn’t justify avoiding questions pertaining to Sherlock’s own race. He had a way in.

“ _Ran_ ,” John answered immediately. “The Dananic word for human. It’s _Ran_.”

“As in the past tense of-?”

“Yes.” John nodded, “Same spelling.”

“And that’s what humans are known as, in your…?” he trailed off. What was the correct terminology? World? Culture?

John closed his journal and set it aside along with any pretence of reading it. It appeared that he had decided to commit himself to Sherlock’s questioning, but Sherlock suspected it was highly conditional on the nature of the questions being asked. It seemed that questions about his own race were fine but John’s was still off-limits. “There are further sub-classifications, but generally yes,” he stated.

“Sub-classifications?” Sherlock parroted.

“Yes.” John shook his head slightly, “It’s probably obsolete now, but humans were graded on their level of knowledge. Those who had found out about us were known by a different name to those who were clueless.” Though, of course, Sherlock realised, now that all humans knew about them, that distinction was lost. Humanity had become a messy, disorganised blob. “Your classification now would be different than it would have been a year ago,” John explained.

“Right.” Sherlock let silence fall again while he processed this. There was a hell of a lot to process and Sherlock wasn’t even sure he was asking the right questions. Where did you begin when learning about a new civilisation?

John didn’t say anything while Sherlock stood silently, just giving him the time that he needed. He must have been aware that this moment was coming from the moment that the branding decree had been passed. And yet he was curiously unprepared to discuss his own status. Why? Did he think that it was too complicated for Sherlock to understand? No, that was just ridiculous. Was he worried that Sherlock believed that the riots and murders happening all over the world were justified? Again, unlikely.

Was he ashamed of his race?

Sherlock would have dismissed this immediately, as he saw no reason why there would be any shame in belonging to a more advanced race than humanity, but then he forced himself to step back and view the situation from John’s perspective. John, who had always pursued a life among the humans. Who chose to take a mediocre job in a doctor’s surgery when he could have been so much more. Who always strove for the ordinary to balance out the weird.

No amount of ordinary could balance the fact that he was a witch.

A witch. The term sounded ridiculous and conjured images of either old crones in pointy hats or nude and nubile wiccans when John was neither. But Sherlock had never heard of the Dananics referring to themselves as anything else. He figured it was safer to embrace their chosen designation.

While Sherlock worried that being human reflected badly on himself, did John think the same about his own race? Did he worry that his race would prevent him from being able to live the way that he wanted to?

“John,” Sherlock said carefully, waiting until John’s eyes flicked back to his before continuing. “You know you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

John scowled. Sherlock knew that he was breaking the rule about mentioning John’s race, but he didn’t care. He could hardly have expected the details of Sherlock’s dull race to keep him satisfied. Sherlock hoped that broaching the topic under the guise of friendly concern would yield better results. He was gradually learning more and more about the stipulations of friendship and by that he meant how to exploit certain aspects of it. John could hardly shrug him off when Sherlock was showing empathy. It would go against everything John had been slowly trying to encourage in him. “I’m not ashamed of what I am, Sherlock,” he said finally.

“Then why hide the branding from me?”

“Because scared and ashamed are two very different things.”


	3. Interruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to get more information out of John, before an interruption puts him in more familiar territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all of you who are reading!

** Chapter Three: Interruption **

Scared? What in the world did John have to be scared of? In the outside world, perhaps there were now people who may mean him harm, but here in Baker Street he was perfectly safe. Unless… Sherlock blinked at him. “You thought I would have an adverse reaction to your branding?”

“I knew you assumed I was human and I didn’t correct you.” He spoke plainly so Sherlock knew that he was being entirely honest. “I know you’re not happy about the Dananics, though that’s probably mostly because you didn’t twig by yourself.” Sherlock wasn’t pleased at how transparent that had apparently been, but he didn’t reply. Just stood and pinned John’s gaze with his own. “I know you’re the type to get jealous if someone has abilities you don’t have, especially if they’re abilities you can’t learn… I didn’t-” He broke off and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “I didn’t want to cause a rift…between us. I didn’t think I’d need to at first, but then that law passed and…” He shrugged uselessly. “I’m a _Dan_ while you’re a _Ran_.”

_Dan_. That was already more information than Sherlock had managed to attain before. Yet _Dan_ wasn’t short for Dananic? Interesting. “You knew I was human?” Sherlock asked, baffled by the idea that John had shut away such an interesting part of himself in order to spare Sherlock’s human sensibilities.

John took a moment to consider this, which went some way towards soothing Sherlock’s ruffled feathers. Maybe his birth deficiency wasn’t so obvious after all. “I knew you were oblivious,” he said slowly. Okay, feathers ruffled again. Sherlock didn’t like the gaps in his knowledge to be obvious. “But I wasn’t certain whether you were human until you stuck your hand under my nose ten minutes ago.”

Sherlock held himself very still. “Why not?”

John inclined his head thoughtfully, “Well, I never got that tingle of magical energy that I can sense on most other Dananics, but that didn’t mean that you weren’t… With your gifts, I always wondered if…”

“Could I be? Could they have made a mistake in my classification?”

John shook his head, “No. They have ways of making sure. They wouldn’t have been careless in something like this. Sit down, will you? I’m getting a crick in my neck looking at you from this angle.” As Sherlock crossed to flop onto the sofa obediently, following the weight of the leaden feeling in his stomach, John frowned at him. “Do you wish you were Dananic?”

“It would be interesting,” Sherlock responded tersely, stretching himself out on the sofa and leaning his head back against the armrest to study the ceiling blankly.

“Strange.”

“Strange?” Sherlock shifted his head to meet John’s gaze again, finding it amused this time. “Strange how?”

John bit back a grin, “Strange that you would want to be like us when you’re far more interesting as you are.”

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, “What do you mean?”

John shrugged loosely, feigning casualness just to annoy him, “We’re not so fussed about Dananics. We can all basically do the same things. There’s no interest for us there.” He leant forward slightly in his chair, “But a human who can do something that a Dananic can’t? For you to have the talents you have without magical intervention? That’s something.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “You don’t have my deductive reasoning and I’ll safely assume that I would have met far more people on my level if Dananics did… but your people have ways of improving the processing power of the brain?”

“Not always legally and very rarely naturally, but we have…methods. There’s one breed of witches that could maybe be born with the ability, but even then it would be a magical ability. Not like yours.” John tipped his head back with a smile, “Lestrade once asked me if I thought you were human or not.”

“What did you say?” Sherlock felt a slight pang. Of course John and Lestrade would have been aware of one another. He wondered whether the recognition had been instantaneous or if it had taken a while for them to ascertain the truth. The idea that they could both be privy to a world that Sherlock had been shut out of…

“Said I’d never cared enough to find out. Your talent would still be your own.”

“There’s no way it could be a witch thing?”

John shook his head, “It’s not one of the standard abilities. Maybe if you were a…” He shrugged again. Sherlock could have thumped him. He didn’t have enough information to understand what John meant if he cut himself off. “But you’re not.”

“Not what?”

“Not Dananic.” John smiled, leaning back in his chair again, “Just the same genius human you’ve always been.”

Sherlock settled down onto the sofa again, trying not to look too smug. John was always far too amused whenever Sherlock acknowledged a compliment as obvious. Why should he deny that his intellect surpassed most others? “So I could be of aid to the Dananics, even as a human?”

“They might welcome it in the transitional period, for sure. The only problem would be language, but you’re lucky enough to speak a fairly dominant world language.”

“You can speak this other language?”

The answer was yes but, before John could actually vocalise it, the door downstairs opened and slammed closed before feet thundered up the stairs. Lestrade caught himself on the doorframe, wide eyed and out of breath. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a problem.”

John was on his feet immediately, “What kind of problem?”

“Multiple murders, all over town. All the victims are Dananic.”

John swore loudly as Sherlock sat up on the sofa. Surely that couldn’t be all. “Same killer?” he asked.

“Maybe. Not sure.” Lestrade pushed himself off the doorframe into the room, “I’m heading to the latest scene if you want to come with me.”

“What do you think?” John asked dryly as Sherlock strode across the room. "How public are the murders?"

“Not very. Not yet. This isn’t the reaction that we wanted so soon after- Get off!”

Lestrade jerked his hand away as Sherlock reached for it, but the consulting detective just followed the movement and snatched it from mid-air. Then he reached over for John’s right hand as well, drawing it across his body so he could hold the hands side by side. John didn’t fight him, but facing Lestrade became a little more uncomfortable as he didn’t turn away.

Sherlock moved his attention from the curling ‘S’ on Lestrade’s hand to the ‘D’ on John’s hand, then glanced at his own hand again. Different witch races. He was standing in a room with two races he knew nothing about, who might even be speaking English for his benefit at the moment. He looked up at their faces. There was nothing new there. Nothing to suggest that they were anything more than he’d believed them to be seven months earlier.

“You think humans are responsible?” John asked.

Lestrade took a moment to think and used it to look down at their hands. He noted Sherlock’s own branding with a grunt, “Huh. I owe Donovan a drink.” Did that mean Donovan was Dananic, or just that they had been making bets about Sherlock’s own race since the news had broken? Lestrade turned his gaze back to John, “I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions. Shall we go?”

*****

The body could have been any other. Multiple stab wounds to the abdomen in a back alley. Wallet and phone still present on the body. A murder that was about the victim, not the victim’s stuff. The killer had been close enough to drive the knife right in, then stayed close enough to have a few more goes. “John,” he said, not even needing to look to know that John had turned his attention to him. “What do you take to be the cause of death?”

Anderson didn’t even bother to contain his snort of disdain, “Seriously? You need him to tell you the bloke’s been stabbed? Cause of death: Knife.”

But John eased into a crouch next to Sherlock to study the wounds obligingly, lifting the layers of clothing away from the sticky red flesh gently to check the angles. “No,” he said softly, examining the punctures with his calm blue eyes. “None of these would have killed him. Cause of death: Blood loss caused by knife. It wasn’t instant.” John drew his hands back and looked at Sherlock with slightly pained eyes, “He bled out before anyone found him.”

“The killer left him alive?” Lestrade asked.

“Perhaps, or perhaps the killer merely stood back to watch the death creep up,” Sherlock answered. “Either way, the victim wasn’t being granted a quick death.” As he glanced up, he caught Anderson’s lingering gaze and his sneer; followed it down. His hand? No. John’s hand. Watching as the doctor reached forward to slip the victim’s hand over.

A ‘D’.

“One of yours,” Anderson quipped. “And killed by a human. You must be so proud.”

“Anderson, if you insist on being stupid then at least be quiet about it,” Sherlock snapped before John could retort. “Even if there were shame to be found in being killed by a certain race, which is rubbish in and of itself, there’s nothing here to confirm your hypothesis.”

John looked at him in askance, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m not sure why Anderson has predetermined the race of the killer.”

Lestrade stepped forward, “You’re sure it’s not a human?”

“I’m not confirming either way, but can Dananics not use knives?”

“There’s actually more stabbings committed by Dananics than humans,” John remarked. “But that’s probably mostly because there’s more of us.” _There are_ , Sherlock mentally corrected, but he didn’t say it out loud. John had told him off before for correcting grammar in everyday colloquial speech.

“This is ridiculous,” Anderson blustered, throwing up his hands so Sherlock could make out the faint outline of an ‘S’ under his latex gloves. “Humans are rioting and killing Dananics all over the world and we’re supposed to believe that this one wasn’t murdered by a human just because the freak- who’s a _human_ \- says so?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’re supposed to think carefully and objectively before coming to any conclusions, though I understand that thinking can be a stretch for you sometimes.”

Lestrade held up a hand, cutting off Anderson’s retort, “Shut up, Anderson. Sherlock, talk us through it.”


	4. Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sets out his reasoning, while prejudices flare.

**Chapter Four: Reason**

Sherlock stood up straight to look Lestrade dead on. It felt good that he was still being consulted even although he didn’t yet fully understand this new world. Strangely comfortable to know that even as a human he was better than others. Small pleasures. “You would’ve said if any of the murders had been committed by a mob. Am I to assume that this is the MO for most of the bodies found?”

“Mostly knife related. One strangulation near the West End.”

“All close quarters?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock inclined his head, “Always one body killed by one person?”

“Yes.”

“Secluded places?”

Anderson made a noise of derision, but managed to cut himself off with a strange grunt. Sherlock glanced over to see that his hands had gone to his crotch and his face had changed colour, turning bright red with a slight tinge of purple. The whole reaction was consistent with a hit to the groin, but there was no-one standing close enough to him to deliver it. Lestrade sighed heavily. Sherlock could sense the smirk curling on John’s lips, but it was quickly wiped away to be replaced with a look of feigned casualness as both Lestrade and Sherlock looked his way.

Lestrade just rolled his eyes, “Last time I did that, I was ten and my brother had stolen my Frisbee. I wasn’t allowed out to play for a week. You see the level you’ve lowered us to?”

“Won’t do it again,” John said solemnly with a glint in his eye that said otherwise. Sherlock cursed himself for missing what appeared to have been a magical groin punch, though at the same time he suspected that John wouldn’t have risked it if Sherlock _had_ been watching.

“You’d better not. We’re pretending to be professionals here.” At John’s quick grin, Lestrade cleared his throat, hiding his own amusement. “Keep your force to yourself. Anderson, don’t talk unless you have to.” He paused to take stock and make sure he’d given out all the requisite warnings, then he nodded. “Carry on, Sherlock.”

Force? Was that a general term for magic or more specific? Sherlock hated to tear himself away from that query to get back to the matter at hand. “All secluded places?”

“All back alleys.”

“And all knife based or done with bare hands. It’s unlikely that shootings will occur as the gun licence register hasn’t taken a dramatic leap since the reveal.” He’d been keeping an eye on that out of idle curiosity. Gun sales in the US and other such countries had gone through the roof, but the legal and black market channels in the UK hadn’t taken much of a bump.

John shrugged, “As a nation, we’ve always been more inclined to stab than shoot.” He paused, but Sherlock could sense that there was something more he wanted to say. “Bit disturbing, really. Guns are somehow less personal; give you the illusion of distance. To stab someone, you need to be right there in the moment.”

Sometimes John had odd moments of brilliance where he hit on exactly what Sherlock was thinking. John was yet to realise the implications of his words in the murder before them, but he’d taken that crucial first step. Sherlock gave him a nod of acknowledgment. John recognised the nod for what it was and the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth indicated that the floor was Sherlock’s once more. He turned back to Lestrade, “Same killer?”

Lestrade shifted on his feet, “We’re not sure but probably not. You can look at some of the other bodies to see for yourself, but some of the murders happened too close time-wise for one person to get between all the sites.”

“Besides,” Anderson cut in, then held up his hands in mock surrender as they all turned to look at him. “It’s not only London. Donovan was saying earlier that most major cities and even some of the bigger towns have reported like murders.”

“So we’d be talking at least one killer in each place,” John stated.

“Edinburgh’s had some interesting ones,” Anderson commented. “Can always count on the Scots to take it too far.”

John shot him a glare, “Couldn’t quit at being helpful, could you?”

“Just saying.”

Sherlock held up a hand before Jake could retort, bringing them back to point. “So we have multiple humans who you’re presuming are brave and/or stupid enough to get close and violent with a magical species?”

He was rewarded with two blank stares and one thoughtful one. “You don’t think a lone human would approach an unknown threat,” John murmured.

“How many humans can you think of that would willingly get this close to a Dananic at the moment?” Sherlock directed the question to all of them. “You’ve seen the reaction. They’re scared. All the other murders, they’ve been done by mobs. Strength in numbers. We don’t know exactly what you can do. You could be able to murder us with a look.” He ignored John’s snort of amusement. “Someone risked that to get close enough to stab multiple times.”

“Fear and terror can lead people to do crazy things,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Humans aren’t brave, not without a pack mentality.” Sherlock shook his head, “No, I wouldn’t discount the possibility of a Dananic killer. A human with prior experience of Dananics, or someone stupid and drunk enough to surpass their fear, maybe. But that doesn’t rule out the Dananics.”

“But that’s bollocks. Why would a Dananic kill another Dananic?”

John’s expression was scathing, “Yeah, because that’s never happened before…”

“The possibilities are endless. This is the perfect opportunity to commit a murder, since the police more likely to blame the angry humans, because why would Dananics turn on each other in this moment of crisis?”

“Opportunism?” Lestrade queried.

“Is it so ridiculous?” Sherlock looked down at the body again, “This ‘us versus them’ mentality you’ve acquired isn’t practical.”

“You might be playing right into their hands,” John agreed.

“I still don’t buy it,” Anderson declared. “Maybe your lot see murder as something casual, but-”

John took a single step closer to Anderson, “My lot?” His voice was low and terse. Sherlock recognised the squaring of his shoulders and the tension in his body as the stance that meant John was at his most dangerous. It was the moment before the cool composure snapped and the fire leapt out.

“Not the time!” Lestrade interjected firmly. “Anderson, go be somewhere else!”

“But-”

“ _Now_.” Lestrade spat something else in a language Sherlock didn’t recognise and Anderson’s face took on an indignant look. He began to respond before John cut across him in the same tongue.

Sherlock just watched, fascinated, as they argued in another language. They had all switched into it so effortlessly, almost like they didn’t realise they’d done it. It must be an automatic reflex to switch into their language when they were discussing things that were more specific to their races. The language itself was strange, unlike any other language Sherlock had ever heard. They all spoke it slightly differently as well. Anderson spoke quickly and at a slightly higher pitch than his usual voice, while John’s was low and steady. Lestrade’s had the same gruff and firm quality of his regular voice. It was like the language itself conveyed a part of their character.

Being here amongst three Dananics who were no longer trying to hide themselves had given him a lot of new information, the language only being one part of it. For example, there appeared to be an imagined hierarchy within the Dananic community, with John’s race taking the lower tier, at least in Anderson’s opinion. Did John’s race actually have a lower status or was it a lingering historical prejudice on the same level as Anderson’s dismissal of the Scots earlier? Sherlock wondered when John would be willing to answer these questions.

He turned his gaze back to the body in silent contemplation. It didn’t strike him as an act of human desperation. It was colder than that. Even though they were scared, it was hard to kill someone that looked so much like yourself. Reason would kick in and tell you that your victim was too familiar, too…normal.

It was hard to believe that so many humans across the British Isles could suddenly all be so cold. Not without prior planning. So what was going on?

Could it be a group of Dananics who were unhappy with the humans being brought into the fold? Enough murders being attributed to humans could lead to a more permanent separation of the races. It was a small price to pay to kill off some human-friendly Dananics. But that left too much to chance. It had been too easy to poke holes in the certainty of a human suspect.

Perhaps a pre-existing human supremacy group who wanted to keep the Dananics in their place? By keeping themselves concealed, the Dananics had effectively been acknowledging the humans as the dominant race. Were humans who had been aware of this balance now upset that the status quo had been disturbed?

Too many theories and not enough data to go on. He needed to see some of the other victims. He needed to learn more.


	5. Demonstration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As he delves deeper into the case, Sherlock tries to get John to talk to him a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly longer wait on this chapter, but here it is for you now. Thank you for bearing with me and I hope you enjoy!

** Chapter Five: Demonstration **

Sherlock looked up again as Anderson finally made his angry exit. Meeting John’s gaze, he assessed the situation quickly. Steady, but his temper was barely banked. Beside him, Lestrade just looked resigned. “Sorry about that, Sherlock,” the DI said gruffly. “Apparently I need to sit my team down for a revised version of the ‘prejudice in the workplace’ talk.”

One glance at John had Sherlock biting back the questions. It wasn’t time. Not yet. “I’d like to see the other bodies,” he said to Lestrade instead.

“I’ll clear it. I don’t give a damn who’s behind these murders as long as we stop them.”

“What do you know about the human reaction in general?”

“In general?” Lestrade puffed out his cheeks and blew out a breath to give himself time to consider. “As expected, really. Death threats; separation threats. Probably more support overall but the negative always makes the most noise. Nice comments are always being drowned out by people telling us to go back where we came from.”

“Which would leave most of us in the same place,” John remarked.

“Nah, I wasn’t born in London.” Lestrade jerked his chin demonstratively, “Shall we?”

*****

Seeing the other bodies didn’t tell Sherlock very much more than he already knew. It confirmed that there were multiple assailants. At least half a dozen of the bodies showed that their killers had very distinctive markers to their craft. But there was no new information. All of the killers were experienced- they’d killed before and knew how to optimise each strike, but there was no uniform technique. The victims also had nothing in common besides the fact they were all Dananic. Otherwise they varied in gender, ethnicity, height, weight and even Dananic race. There was a random assortment of _D_ s, _S_ s and even one _K_ that had John’s eyebrows rising in surprise. “They’re rare,” was all he had said in response to Sherlock’s quizzical look.

A working silence had fallen between them in the last half an hour as Sherlock scoured the bodies for any hint of anything he could have possibly missed. John had left him to it after his own brief study of each of the bodies. Now he was sitting on one of the high stools by the workbench, fiddling with his phone in that distracted manner that meant he was really thinking stuff through for himself. Sherlock left him to it as well, knowing that he would speak once he’d worked out what to say.

Sherlock had moved onto the personal effects and was divulging a purse of its contents when John finally worked out what he wanted to say. “It’s weird that a Dananic wouldn’t use their abilities.”

Sherlock looked up at him. The intense study of the wide array of loyalty cards this woman had was yielding him nothing. “Is it?”

“Yeah.” John had set his phone aside and braced his elbows on his knees to cup his face in his hands. “It’s almost instinctual. If it were a Dananic attacker, you’d think they’d at least incapacitate them a little before going in with the knife.”

“Incapacitate how?” Sherlock moved around the table slowly, like a sudden movement could spook John and prevent him from continuing the chain of thought. “Can you tell me exactly what your abilities entail?”

John hesitated for a moment, then nodded. The case had to take precedence no matter how reluctant he was to talk about it. Sherlock had to know as much as possible. “Okay. The standard abilities are fairly basic. The easiest way to explain them is telekinesis and…”

Sherlock waited a beat. “And?”

“Hang on, I’m thinking.” John pursed his lips, “Energy blasts, I guess…?”

“What do you mean?”

“We can build up energy at our fingertips, then send it flying.” John shrugged, “It sounds stupid to say it out loud, like something out of an anime. But these blasts can vary in power, from a blow designed to knock someone off their feet to a small jolt to get someone’s attention.”

“Or a shot to the crotch to shut someone up?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

John cast his eyes up innocently, “Hypothetically.”

“Can you show me?”

“Not here.” Obviously Sherlock’s face gave away his displeasure, since John raised his hands apologetically, “Not for that reason. But there were laws in place before all this happened, prohibiting where and when we could use our abilities. Public buildings with security cameras were a big no-no, but I’m not sure if that’s changed now. Probably best not to risk it.” John met Sherlock’s gaze surely, “Later, I promise.”

“Fine.” Sherlock leant back against the workbench he’d circled, “Telekinesis, too, you said?”

John nodded, “Yeah. I could’ve spared you some heavy lifting in the past. Sorry.”

“I’ll just remember it for next time. How much can you lift?”

John’s lips quirked at the wording. “I’ve never measured it. Less than a yacht, but more than a table.” John paused, “Actually, depends on the table.”

“And you would use this in combat?”

John snorted, “Keep their attention on you while you send a fire extinguisher flying at their head from behind? Oh, yeah.”

Sherlock could see how that would be handy. You could be your own distraction. “And these attacks leave traces on the victims?”

“Not the telekinesis. You’d just be able to tell that they’d been hit by something. But the force blasts leave a mark.” He nodded at the line of bodies, “And none of these people were hit by one in the twenty-four hours before they popped their clogs.”

“‘Pop your clogs’ implies a natural death,” Sherlock murmured. “Refers to the pawning of shoes after ones death, usually done by a family member in hard times.” He shook his head to get back on track as John just rolled his eyes, “So you’re saying the lack of magical evidence suggests that the murderers are more likely to be human?”

“Maybe. Or it puts more clout behind your theory that they really want the humans blamed for it. It means they definitely pre-planned and had to keep amazing control on their instincts in order to make sure there was no trace.”

“How much control would they need?”

John shrugged, “A fair amount. Think of it as trying to beat someone up without using your hands. You could probably manage it, but it’s a whole lot more work and effort for the same end result. One of the biggest weaknesses Dananics have is that they’re too quick to use their abilities. Seems weird that that wouldn’t come into play without some kind of ulterior motive.”

“You’d class that as a weakness?”

The gaze that met Sherlock’s was cool and practical, “It’s never clever to base a whole attack around one move, no matter how good you are at it.”

*****

The atmosphere back at the flat was suitably awkward. John had immediately busied himself with filling the kettle, then just stood and stared at the white plastic as the water boiled as if standing close to the roar would dissuade Sherlock from asking him anything more for the time being.

He was wrong, obviously. “You don’t want to talk to me,” Sherlock said bluntly, joining him at the counter and pitching his voice above the noise.

“Sherlock-”

“Don’t put me off again. Just tell me why.”

John sighed and dropped the tea bags into the mugs on the counter before snapping the lid of the tea caddy closed. He turned to face Sherlock before answering. “I don’t want to talk to you…because I don’t know what to say.”

Sherlock frowned, “What do you mean?”

“This isn’t something I’ve ever had to think about before.” At Sherlock’s frown, John held up a hand to stop him from cutting in. “This is something I’ve grown up with, something I’m so used to being that I don’t stop and think about how I feel about it. Do ask yourself questions about being… I don’t know... what you are? White? British? Male? Upper-class? I’m not saying you don’t have the odd moment of self-reflection but you don’t sit and work it all out in your head. Well, maybe you would, but I don’t. There are questions I need to face now that I’m not even sure if I can answer because I’ve honestly never thought about them.”

“I-”

John’s gaze flicked away as the snap of the kettle announced it coming off the boil. “I’m used to a world where I’m not allowed to talk about this kind of thing with humans. You need to give me some time to adjust as well.”

Sherlock absorbed this. He hadn’t considered how overwhelming it must be to suddenly be forced out into the open in this way. Wherever there wasn’t hate or fear, the Dananics were probably being pressured with questions about their lives and abilities. If you had been brought up not to discuss such things, it would be hard to find the words now. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as John fussed with the mugs. “Then let’s do it this way,” he said finally.

“What way?”

“I don’t want you to sit down and tell me your whole life story with added magic.” John snorted as he passed him to grab the milk from the fridge. Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard it, “But, if I have a specific question, will you answer it?”

John shut the fridge again, but his hand remained on the door as he thought. “If I can,” he promised.

“Thank you.”

John nodded and went to cross back to the mugs, but Sherlock blocked his path with a smirk. “What now?”

“You said you’d show me your abilities.”

“Can’t I at least finish making the tea first?”

“You’re telekinetic. You don’t need to be over there.”

John dug an elbow into Sherlock’s side, forcing him aside with an amused glint in his eye. “Yeah, because the difficulties of pouring milk required us to evolve into a super-secret witch species.”

Sherlock groaned as John tempered the tea by hand, “Couldn’t you at least humour me?”

“It’s hard to break habit.” John stuck the teaspoon in his mouth casually before dropping it in the sink. “Besides, it’s bloody awkward to pour that way.”

“Fine. Pass me my mug.” But Sherlock took a single step back as John extended it towards him. He was rewarded with a scowl.

“This isn’t going to be half as impressive as you want it to be.”

“Just do it.”

John was wrong. It was even more impressive than Sherlock could have imagined. The cup remaining in mid air as John took his hand off it, then the smooth float through the air towards Sherlock was one thing. It looked like any false telekinesis on any television show Sherlock had ever been bored or curious enough to watch, but he still found himself watching enraptured.

But even more impressive than the trick itself was the casualness of the John’s movements. He flicked his wrist lazily to send the mug on its way, though Sherlock suspected it wasn’t actually necessary, then reached back for his own mug to take a slug while maintaining the levitation effortlessly. Sherlock was aware of all of this in his peripheral vision as he watched the mug come towards him. It was the demeanour of someone who was completely at ease with their actions.

As Sherlock reached out to take hold of the mug in mid-air, half afraid it would fall to the ground and smash at any interference from him, it floated back about half a metre tauntingly, evading his grasp. He shot what was supposed to be a disparaging look at John but, halfway through the execution, he lost the drive.

John was watching him as he sipped his own tea, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes showing his amusement. However, Sherlock couldn’t see the amusement in the blue of John’s eyes as he usually could. Instead, the entire surface of John’s eyes had flushed black. The surface was metallic and shiny, almost like dark hematite. Sherlock had the urge to pluck one of John’s eyeballs from its socket to check if the shade covered the whole orb, but he suspected that John, along with the NHS and the police force, wouldn’t take too kindly to that behaviour.

It was fascinating nonetheless.

Sherlock felt something nudge against his fingers and he looked back down to see that the mug had floated closer again and was vying for his attention. With a smile, he wrapped his fingers slowly around the handle. As he felt it go heavy in his hand, he looked back up at John just in time to see his eyes fade back to their familiar comforting blue. John grinned back at him.

“Well,” a voice intoned from behind Sherlock. “It’s always nice to have a suspicion confirmed.”


	6. Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is concern for John's safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait for this chapter! Normal service shall resume from Sunday. Enjoy!

** Chapter Six: Summons **

There was a long moment of silence as Sherlock turned to stare accusingly at the man who had appeared in the archway that led back into the living room. Mycroft smiled blandly back at him, as if he hadn't just entered their home without their permission. John just sighed softly, “We really need to get you a bell.”

That was another thing. Normally, Sherlock would have heard as soon as Mycroft came through the front door, since his hearing was excellent and Mycroft never took any pains to conceal his approach. Then again, a floating mug and his flatmate's eyes flushing black was a decent excuse for his distraction. Not that it didn't always grate when Mycroft managed to surprise him. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.

“Oh, I'm just...checking in. I know this has been a difficult transition for you.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, “You can't seriously think you're better just because you found out about this first. We're still both only human.”

“I'm a human of use.”

“Rubbish. An ' _R_ ' is an ' _R_ '.”

Sherlock heard John sigh again, “If you're about to start comparing tattoo sizes, I'm going to sit down. Budge over.” He squeezed past Sherlock to exit into the living room, where he settled into his chair in full disregard of the Holmes brothers.

A semblance of amusement flitted across Mycroft's face as John passed him, “Don't worry, Doctor Watson. I'm not here to measure competence.” But he inclined his head almost mockingly as he looked back at Sherlock, “In all seriousness, however, how are you familiarising yourself with everything?”

“Fine, thank you,” Sherlock responded tersely. John would back him up even if that wasn't quite true, yet. No need to let Mycroft know the extent of his ignorance.

“It's a lot of information to take in.”

“I'm aware.” Sherlock carried his own mug through to the living room as well. Once he was past Mycroft, he flexed his jaw in annoyance, working out the tension created by his brother's very presence. It was just like Mycroft to lord his superior knowledge over him. Like it was Sherlock's fault that he didn't have the access to the information. Damn Mycroft for realising first. And damn John for not telling him and better equipping him to deal with this. As he flopped down onto the sofa, the glare that Sherlock sent John was partly fuelled by the fact that he managed to slosh hot tea all over his hand, but John also needed to know that his impertinence had been noted. Further emissions of data would not be tolerated.

John just rolled his eyes.

Mycroft took a seat in Sherlock's chair, clearly unperturbed by the fact that they'd both abandoned him in favour of tea and comfy seats. “I thought you might be Dananic, John.”

“And yet you never asked me.” John took a sip of his tea, “Excuse me if I think that's bollocks.”

Mycroft just smiled as Sherlock snorted into his mug. “You know the rules better than I do.”

“There are ways of dropping hints.”

“That would be inappropriate for someone in my position.”

John blinked at him, “Your pos-? Damn it, Mycroft!”

Sherlock sat upright, “What's happened?”

John sent Sherlock a hot glare, “Your brother is incapable of walking past a body of power without offering to serve it.”

“I prefer to think of it as keeping myself in with powerful allies.”

“That might work with the British government, but this is completely different.”

Sherlock frowned, “How the hell did you even worm your way into the Dananic political sphere? You're human. You can't even speak the language.”

Mycroft radiated smugness, almost like he was asking to be punched in the face. “They recognised my talents for what they were and were wise enough to take me into the fold. Humans who have proved their loyalty are valuable to the council at this time.”

“Like I said, English is a good enough language to have,” John added. “So you're with the council now, then?” he remarked to Mycroft. “Is that why you're here?”

“Do you not believe me to have any motivation of my own?”

“You do, but it's self-serving and usually involves sucking up to a major power.”

Mycroft smiled slowly, taking no offence at the comment. Not that he would. He was under no allusions as to how he appeared to others, Sherlock knew. He just didn't care as long as Mycroft was in a comfortable position. “The council have issued a summons for any Dananics who could be of use, both defensively and diplomatically, to return to the Isles.”

John nodded, “I saw that, yeah.”

“You haven't volunteered.” Not a question, Sherlock noted. Mycroft evidently had access to the right information.

“Why would I?”

“You're a war medic. You could be of infinite aid to-”

“To what?” John set his mug aside and leant forward in his chair, his eyes glinting in a manner that Sherlock recognised as another danger sign. Whatever Mycroft was suggesting, John knew what it was and he wasn't supportive of it. “Are we going to war, Mycroft? Why else would they need an army doctor?”

“There are people being injured in violent attacks. I'm sure you can see the similarities.”

John snorted in disdain, “So the council wants us to abandon ship and crawl back to the Isles to hide? Sod that.”

That was the second time these 'Isles' had been mentioned. What the hell were they, Sherlock wondered, and how could he get some indication without giving away that he didn't know? If it had just been he and John present, then he would have had no qualms about asking the question, but god forbid Mycroft should know just how ill-equipped he was. Isles, plural, so not just a headquarters or anything like this. Islands meant land mass. A colony? A Dananic settlement? Their homeland? No, John had been born on the British Isles and people would have noticed if more than half of the population had been sneaking off to give birth elsewhere. But the Isles couldn't mean the British Isles, since John couldn't be refusing to be summoned to an island that he was already on.

He was sick of being so thoroughly vexed.

“It's not hiding,” Mycroft responded levelly. “It's giving help where it's needed at the moment.”

“People are being hurt everywhere, not just on the Isles,” John argued. “In fact, they're probably the safest bloody place for Dananics right now.” So definitely a Dananic territory, then. “If we all run off, then humans are never going to readjust.”

“So you're going to refuse to help people just so you can stand around and be the poster boy for promoting Dananic friendliness,” Mycroft spat, showing the first sign of temper. He clearly hadn't expected John to be so unwelcoming. Strange really, considering John was normally adverse to pointless political agenda. The selflessness in him valued the idea of encouraging integration above fearmongering.

“I'm going to help Sherlock with the murder cases we've already been called in on,” John snapped. “I'm already helping here. I've got no reason to leave.”

A crease appeared between Mycroft's brow, “There are Dananics being killed John. Right here in London.”

John paused in the act of reaching for his mug again and his gaze flicked to Mycroft. Sherlock also frowned and regarded his brother closely. The furrowed brow and the way that his fingers flexed on the arm of Sherlock's chair both indicated that he was aggrieved about something, but what? It didn't make sense. Right now, Mycroft should be making himself as indispensable as possible to the Dananics, not faffing around in their flat trying to talk John into leaving London. He must have an ulterior motive for wanting John out.

John was the first to speak again, “Are you worried about me?”

Worried? Why would Mycroft be worried? It wasn't as if he detested John, but Sherlock still suspected that his death wouldn't rank above 'mild annoyance' as far as Mycroft was concerned. Yet here he was. Now John had voiced the question, Sherlock had to admit that the theory made sense. The best way to protect John would be to send him somewhere where the danger was reduced, under a pretence that would appeal to John's good nature. Mycroft was trying to protect John.

The plan was strong, but poorly executed. John didn't go anywhere if he felt he was being coaxed against his will. You had to drop hints and let them take seed, so that John felt he was moving under his own steam. Mycroft had no idea of how to manipulate John.

Sherlock supposed that was probably a good thing.

Mycroft sneered in response to the question. “As an asset that can be lost, John, nothing more. Don't attribute to me emotion that I don't have.” He shrugged slightly, “I don't care to take full responsibility for Sherlock again and he works best when you're around. If you go to the Isles we can ensure your safe return once things have calmed down here and you know that you can do some good work whilst there.”

“I'm not leaving,” John stated firmly. As Mycroft opened his mouth again, he held up a hand, “You just said yourself that Sherlock works best when I'm around and we have an open case. It would be irresponsible to leave him in the lurch.”

“Irresponsible is putting your own life at risk for no reason.”

“My reason is that this is my home and I will not be driven out of it!”

Sherlock cleared his throat, “While I love hearing you discuss me as if I'm some sort of pet that needs to be cared for, I think my name's been mentioned enough times now to make me a part of this discussion.”

John smiled slightly against the rim of his mug, “Have at it.”

“Mycroft, if John doesn't want to return to the Isles, you won't make him. He doesn't have to do anything you tell him do and it sounds like he hasn't been requested by name, so there will be no penalty for ignoring the summons.”

“So you care not if he dies?”

“Nothing is more important than John's life, Mycroft, don't be obtuse.” As John choked on his tea, Sherlock continued matter-of-factly, “But I don't believe there to be any specific danger to John at this moment. People are dying, fine. People die all the time and we don't panic like this. I agree that it's ridiculous for all Dananics to retreat on the threat of a minority of humans. It sends the wrong message and it's bloody inconvenient.”

Mycroft settled back in the chair, “So what do you suggest, oh, wise sage?”

“I'll agree to a compromise.” Sherlock kept his eyes on Mycroft, though he could sense John's incredulity, “John stays with me for now, but if there's any rational perceived danger to his welfare, we will take precautions.”

“Now look who's being talked about like a pet!” John exclaimed. “This is my life, Sherlock!”

“Wrong. This is our life,” Sherlock corrected, meeting John's hot gaze head on. “And while I agree with you up to a point I also think you may be too stubborn to recognise any real danger. I've invested too much time and effort in you for some moron to come along and kill you.”

John rolled his eyes, “You know, I almost got a warm fuzzy feeling there. Can you not refer to me as an investment?”

“Why not? That's what all relationships are, aren't they?”


	7. Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft takes his leave and Sherlock has questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one but here it is!

** Chapter Seven: Question **

John regarded him quietly for a while. There was something in his eyes that Sherlock couldn't quite fathom. Not the disappointment or exasperation that Sherlock was used to, but a quiet contemplation that seemed to say something else entirely. Finally, he nodded stiffly, “I suppose so.”

“I wouldn't worry, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft straightened his already perfect cuff nonchalantly. “You're lucky to be considered worthy of investment.”

“I know.” John cleared his throat, “I know.” The repetition was louder, more self-assured. Sherlock suspected that he was missing something in the way of social etiquette once again, but- whatever it was- John was choosing to disregard it whilst Mycroft was present. Surely the idea of their friendship as an investment wasn't so insulting? It was rare that Sherlock put this much effort into maintaining such a relationship. John had to realise that, terminology aside, he mattered.

Mycroft stood up from his seat again, “Okay. I'll accept your compromise for now, but there are other ways to help that will keep you out of harm's way if need be.”

“If need be,” John agreed. “But I have to be directly targeted before it'll need be.”

“Let's hope that's true. I'll take my leave.” He offered Sherlock another of his insufferably bland smiles. “I'm sure he's full of questions.”

Sherlock seethed silently as Mycroft left. Of course he had no idea how much about the Dananics Sherlock actually knew, but heaven forbid his dear brother could leave without getting one last jab in. Insufferable git. Sherlock tore his gaze from the door to find John watching him in amusement. “You know he's only trying to wind you up, right?” he asked drily.

“Mycroft only has to _be_ to wind me up.”

“Yeah and he knows it.” John cupped his mug in both hands and inclined his head expectantly, “Right, let's hear it, then.”

So many questions. What should he ask first? “What are the Isles?”

“The Dananic Isles. It's a clump of five islands, one large and four smaller. They're in some sea somewhere, far from any land mass.” John grinned, “And I guess you could call it Dananic HQ. It's where we have everything we can't really keep around the humans. Our government, our records system, our police force- it all operates off the Isles.”

Questions were flying through his head. New questions, old questions, edited questions. “Where are they?”

“The Isles?” John cast his eyes up in consideration, pursing his lips slightly, “I don't actually know.”

“How can you not know?”

“Never really asked.”

What could it be like, to have a mind that could just accept something without the need to question it? How did John survive? And why was Sherlock stuck with this as his source of information? Of all the Dananics to pick as a flatmate, he'd ended up with this one. “But how do you all get there?”

“Portals.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Portals? Aren't you getting your fantasy and science fiction confused?”

John laughed, “Maybe. Life doesn't slot as conveniently into categories as fiction does, though, does it? I mean is that every Dananic has a link to the Isles in their home.”

Sherlock sat up, “Their home? There's a portal here?”

“It's somewhere,” John affirmed, rubbing a hand over his face to hide his slight smirk as he stood up to carry his empty mug back through to the kitchen.

“We have a portal in our flat? A portal to a cluster of islands somewhere?”

“Don't get too excited,” John called back from the kitchen. “If it were obvious, you'd have found it already.” But Sherlock could hear the amusement in his voice.

Sherlock scrambled up off the sofa and over to the opening through to the kitchen, forgoing grace for speed. “So you can travel to these Isles whenever you wish?”

John set his mug upside down in the draining rack, “Always nice to have the option.”

“Can I use it?”

“Nope.” John glanced over to see the look of dismay on Sherlock's face and grinned, “Sorry. You're not authorised.”

“I need to be authorised?”

John gave him an incredulous look, “We managed to stay under the radar for thousands of years. You think that would've been possible if people had been stumbling through their spouse's wardrobes into Narnia?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. He wasn't used to being spoken to like he was stupid for not knowing something. Was this how ignorant people felt all the time? It was irritating. “Don't patronise me, John.”

“Why not? You patronise people all the time! Is it different when it's aimed at you?”

“Yes!” Sherlock frowned as John burst out laughing, “You think this is funny?”

“I think you're ridiculous.” John waved a hand, dismissing anything that Sherlock may have said in response. “Next question.”

Biting back his ire, Sherlock focused on what was important. “What does your council do?”

“Sets the rules, controls the police force, keeps order. Like any government really.”

“How have they managed to operate alongside the national governments for so long?”

John shrugged, leaning back against the kitchen counter, “They have people inside every government, making sure they're on top of any developments and that nothing clashes in terms of policy. As far as I know, they don't have many issues with the national side of things. Everyone wants to make things as simple as possible.”

“So all governments knew about you before?”

“Anyone with any degree of authority, yeah.” He sent Sherlock an arch look, “Explains Mycroft, right?”

Sherlock ignored him. Mycroft had annoyed him enough for one day. “Are they elected?”

“All of them, unless the rumours are true.”

Sherlock frowned, “The rumours?”

“Word has it there's a human on the council. A human who can speak Dananic.”

“That's possible?”

“Guess so. Somehow.” Obviously restless, John tugged the biscuit jar across the counter and dug out a digestive, “No-one knows who they are, probably for their protection. There are a lot of Dananics who would be seriously unhappy with a human intruding on the culture.” He shrugged, “But, if it's even true, it's good that they have at least one human representative on board. You need someone fighting your corner, at least right now.”

“I thought Dananics were the ones in danger at the moment.”

John looked him in the eye, “I'm not sure who's in greater danger at the moment.”

Sherlock absorbed this for a moment. Then he changed tact, “Your language. How does it work?”

“I don't know. It's not so much a language as a mental link supplemented with appropriate sounds and gestures.”

“Which is why no human should be able to learn it.”

“Exactly. There's no actual language to learn.” John shook his head slightly as a memory floated to the surface, a fond smile curling on his lips. “Harry once tried to record herself speaking it, so we could play it back and hear how it sounded. But it always just sounded like English.”

“Do you know when you're speaking Dananic and when you're speaking English?”

John nodded, “Yes, but I couldn't tell you how.” He sighed, “Sorry, Sherlock. Growing up with it, I never questioned it because it worked. The mental signature of Dananics allows us to communicate, but it stops short of telepathy because we still need sounds to convey it.”

Sherlock suspected that John could explain it in fifty different ways without it quite making logical sense to him. “What language do you talk to yourself in?”

“English. Dananic needs a receptor. If you're talking to yourself, then you might as well just speak your mother tongue, though you know what they say about talking to yourself. Similarly, two Dananics with a shared mother tongue will almost always default back to it unless there's someone else there.”

Sherlock lapsed into silence again. So many questions were ricocheting around in his head and yet none of them seemed to be forming themselves into sensible English. He moved farther into the kitchen, gripping the back of one of the dining chairs in order to still himself once he was close enough. John said nothing, just watching his progress with a measured stare. “Let's go back to the case,” Sherlock stated finally.

“Okay.”

“You've made a few references to the fact that some Dananics aren't entirely comfortable with human involvement in your world, correct?”

“There are closed-minded people everywhere.”

“But how are humans perceived?”

John frowned, “How d'you mean?”

“Prior to the announcement, there were already humans who knew, yes?”

“Yes. Accidental reveals happen. But if they swore to keep the secret, then they would be allowed into the fold.”

“And if they couldn't keep the secret?” John's eyes flicked away for a split second, but it was enough to tell Sherlock what he needed to know. “What do they do to them?” 'They', not 'you'. It was easier to ask the questions if he John was dissociated from this.

John held up his hands, “I'm not sure.”

“Are they killed?”

“What?” The horrified expression was faintly reassuring. “No. God, no, Sherlock. How could you-? Why would you think that?”

“It's practical to-”

“It's not bloody practical! Think about it. Killing off humans only serves to bring more attention to us.” John rubbed a hand over his face in agitation, “No. Jesus. We're not monsters, you prat.”

“Then what happens?”

John took a deep breath; held up a hand once more as if to ward off Sherlock's comments. “I don't know for sure, okay? But there are certain witches who can...manipulate a mind. It's illegal to do in a day-to-day practice, but-” He met Sherlock's eyes and shrugged. “-if I wanted someone to forget something, that seems like a good way to do it.”

“So if a human doesn't conform-” Sherlock could tell that John was uncomfortable with that word but he carried. Words like 'integrate' or 'assimilate' meant the same thing in this kind of context. “-then they are not permitted to stay.”

“There are humans who haven't accepted us that were still allowed to stay,” John disagreed. “It's not about whether or not they like us, but whether they're a _danger_ to us. We didn't want to be exposed, but that doesn't matter any more! Hatred was allowed, but the secret was paramount. Most agreed to keep it just because no-one would believe them.”

Sherlock nodded stiffly, “So it was keep the secret or forget the secret?” He frowned at the grin on John's face, “What?”

“Never thought I'd see you standing up for human rights.”

“Stick to the topic, John.” Sherlock ignored the snort of laughter that met that response. There were more important things to discuss. “So humans were only ever on the fringes? They were never part of it?”

“Not as much as some wanted to be, and more than others wanted them to be.”

“So anger over advanced human knowledge could plausibly be motive for murder?”

John nodded, “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of explanation in this one but the case will kick-start again soon.  
> Thanks as always for reading and feel free to leave kudos or comments. Concrit and questions are welcome. ^_^


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